I started working on this storygame again as a break from my main project. I had originally started this, I think for one of the spooky halloween contests, never finished it, then I wrote some more for one of Maras jam and still didnt finish it. Now I'm just working on it for fun. I have more but I rewrote the first segment because I have better ideas for it now and sort of how everything fits together. Let me know what you think, or give feedback if you have any.
Even as I'm posting this I've still gone and changed some stuff in the first few sentences lol
Introduction
A soft bell tolls, echoing across the hills of Fendora. It beckons, and you rise.
Somewhere past the old roads, a flame, pale and weak calls to you. Lights your path.
From the peripheries of your mind, distant echoes hum. You are but one of many on this quest.
The flame takes you always one way, despite all, the brighter it burns, the more desperate you are to feel its warmth.
Rain envelopes you. Wind threatens to tear your flesh from their bones. In time, a small cabin appears, shifting into and fading in this realm and the next. A bright pale flame burns from within.
Your guiding starlight. From the heavens beyond the moon, down to the lowest depths, from the hills to the great waters.
Only the most reverent can see.
Warmth.
With every step your life returns to you, hollow husk of what once was.
The door opens before you can fully reach the handle, a soft creak.
On one side is a humble study, and by the fireplace a pot rests over the fire. A man sits on a stool, leafing through a great tome. He turns his head, regarding you without surprise or judgment.
“Hello there,” he says, standing, “you’ve come a long way. You must wash up.”
You are led to a small room, with a simple curtain over the entrance for privacy. There is a wash basin filled with steaming hot water. You rest in it for a while. It seems you sit there for an age, and perhaps you do, pondering as memories swirl with the water.
Eventually you are able to wash away what once was. It is time to begin anew.
Drying off, you find a neatly folded set of clothes laying on a stool. They fit perfectly. The perfect attire for one of your calling. Durable trousers, a simple shirt, a vest with many useful pockets, and an old worn coat. Lastly you place on the gloves, you tie a grey cloth around your mouth and neck to keep the beastly residue away. Lastly, you don an old worn hat.
You step out, and the man motions to a seat by the fire, and you sit. There are a multitude of hunting instruments along the wall, and a table with a variety of half taken apart tools.
“Are you ready to hunt again?”
You nod your head.
He takes a silver pipe, with ancient inscriptions unreadable to the average eye. On the stummel, is an image engraved. A man wields a bident, the points rest in the heart of a beast. The creature is quite indiscernible, being various parts man, lion, dog, and winged. And perhaps things not meant to be known in this realm.
The image depicts the death throes of an ancient evil, and now it rests.
The man blows into the pipe, handing it to you. You breath it in, and in an instant a flash of light overtakes your senses. The Pale Flame ignites within your chest. Life returns to this husk, once hollow and devoid of being.
Now imbued, the Pale Flame guides you. The white haired man takes the pipe and sets it down in an intricately carved wooden box. He gently closes the lid before turning back to you.
The events leading you here since the bell tolled, are hazy at best, and everything before that lost to time. You live only now.
“Now you are truly ready,” he says, “the hour of the beast is here, and the night is full of monstrosities, both mortal and of another plane. Fear not, and let the Pale Flame guide your step.”
You go to the array of weapons and gear on the one side of the cabin, used by ones like yourself since time immemorial. An ancient silver bladed glaive, perfect for slashing and stabbing, it will rend the flesh of many a foul thing tonight.
Next you find a silver dagger laying on the table. Runes line the thing, but unlike the glaive it is a relic of a more recent past. The blade extends at the flick of a switch. Useful in a more personal situation, but when extended, offers a better chance to survive on last resort. Should your skill in all other manner fail.
The blood letter. A long, serrated tool used for cutting the flesh of monsters, however it functions not as a weapon. It is a tool for collecting the blood of the profaned. It will serve you well in your duty.
Several black powder explosives you clip to your belt. Fire and wrath the bane of many marked by blood.
The old man stands next to you, opening up a box made of oak, inlaid with fine silk. Inside is a silver revolver. Prying up the padding reveals many silver bullets. These you take.
“Go now, hunter. Your destiny calls to you.”
You exit. The stars align elsewhere, the cabin moves on.
The shivering, silent echoes of the night reach you, and horrors become clear to you.
The first, a hallowed hunter, now victim of blood. The mistress of dusk and a host of wicked beasts. They roam the valley on the far side of the capital, Fendora. They pillage and haunt, taking many for their wicked ritual. Deep beyond swamp and cave, is a grove corrupted by its unholy congregation. Purge this site, and return your former sister to the flame.
The next. Not far, in the abandoned stronghold of Lorid Vora, dark wings take flight. A creature of ever shifting form howls madly into the night. Find the Watcher, beyond the labyrinthian madness, and collect the ichor from its heart.
On this hour, you must pick a foe to slay.
Many dangers await you on your journey. Use discernment, remain resolute, and you will not be lost. The Pale Flame will guide your each and every step.
